Falls the Angel
by Katya Jade
Summary: When she pulled back the sheet covering her next autopsy, Molly Hooper was greeted by the words I Love U Molly Hooper carved into the dead man's chest. It was in that moment her life went spectacularly to hell.
1. Flowers

**Yep, I've been knee deep in Sherlock stories for awhile now so this bunny hopped my way. Quite honestly, I'm nervous about this, y'all. I want to get Sherlock right so if this isn't working for you, I hope you let me know (in a constructive non-trolly way, of course). Thank you to doctorg for taking a look at it for me.**

**As always, these aren't my characters, I don't make money of this, etc., etc. Thank you to ArianaNavid for the wonderful cover art.  
**

**Here we go. :)**

~oOo~

Looking back, Molly Hooper could pinpoint the exact moment her life went spectacularly to hell. It wasn't when she spilled lunch down the front of her laboratory smock or when her boss, Mike Stamford, informed her that budget cuts would mean she would be forced to work extra shifts to cover the loss of St. Bart's part time pathology staff (she was always at the lab anyway).

No, her day entered the stuff of nightmares when she pulled back the sheet covering her next autopsy and was greeted by the words _I Love U Molly Hooper_ carved into the dead man's chest.

~oOo~

"Flowers."

Sherlock Holmes' deep baritone voice reverberated through the laboratory. Molly shouldn't have been surprised at his presence since his latest case had kept him in the facility every day for a week. Today, however, her distraction coupled by his sudden appearance upon her return from dinner caused her to gasp in surprise. She took a breath to calm herself before stepping forward to place the patient files on her workstation. It had been three months since Sherlock Holmes' resurrection (so dubbed by the press) and while he'd resumed his day to day routine as a Consulting Detective without regard to the repercussions of his two year absence, Molly Hooper hadn't been so lucky. The tabloids and newspapers were obsessed with Sherlock's story and developed all manner of wild theories into the orchestration of his 'death.'

Kitty Riley, the reporter who'd so staunchly defended Richard Brook was utterly humiliated that she'd been so thoroughly deceived by Moriarty. Kitty's single minded determination to rehabilitate her reputation caused the unscrupulous reporter to focus her efforts on digging up (fabricating) as many stories as possible about Sherlock Holmes and his circle of 'co-conspirators'. More than one of those stories focused on Molly. The salacious titles and grainy photographs of the diminutive pathologist adorned the tabloids.

_Doctor Hooper - The Real Mastermind Behind Sherlock Holmes?_

_Mild Mannered Molly or Hot to Trot Hooper?_

As a result, Molly had begun to receive letters, packages and emails both lauding her brilliance and damning her devotion to Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn't have any regrets about helping Sherlock with his disappearance, but this intrusion into her private life was disconcerting and, if she were being completely honest, a little frightening.

"The flowers arrived this morning. Expensive. Imported."

Sherlock Holmes didn't bother looking up from the microscope as he commented again on the vase of flowers sitting atop Molly Hooper's desk. She clenched her teeth and breathed through her nose, a failed attempt to dismiss the seeds of anger blossoming from his casual intrusion (again) into her private life. While she still had feelings for Sherlock, the frustration at his continued indifference and insensitivity was finally taking its toll on her. He'd offered an offhanded thank you for her help in the orchestration of his disappearance. Before leaping from the hospital roof, Sherlock had told her that she counted. That declaration had made her heart soar at the idea that she might hold some place of importance, no matter how small, in his life. But since his return, the aforementioned appreciation for her had vanished. He continued to be self absorbed and rude. On occasion, she could see some effort on his part to be cordial, but those instances were few and far between. Combined with his constant inability to treat her as anything more than his laboratory assistant, she was insanely frustrated.

To complicate her already stressed life, there were the flowers. Upon the first delivery, she had been flattered and hoped that they might serve to prompt some jealousy in Sherlock. As it turned out, it didn't. Not in the least. Molly was tired of harboring a schoolgirl crush when the object of affection couldn't be bothered to even inquire about her well being. It was time to stop putting Sherlock Holmes first. Molly opened her eyes and turned back to her desk, sitting at her chair and pulling up the computer file of her latest case notes.

"Yes, Sherlock. Expensive flowers. Brilliant conclusion. Amazed you even noticed anything besides yourself."

Sherlock slowly lifted up his head, eyes narrow with concentration. Molly was upset. Stop. Correction. Frustrated. Angry. (With him? Possibly. Probably.) Tired as well - the skin under her eyes dark and the sclera tinged red from lack of sleep and overwork. Molly's jaw clenched and unclenched and her lips pursed together in an obvious attempt not to continue her sarcastic remarks.

"Not difficult to notice. This is the fourth bouquet delivered in the last month."

Molly didn't answer.

"They are from the same person, no doubt."

The click of the keyboard served as her response to Sherlock's observation.

"The appearance of the flowers concerns you but not enough for you to dispose of them or refuse their delivery. This tells me you enjoy the attention but, at the same time, you are unsettled by the idea of an anonymous admirer. Your association with Jim obviously an unpleasant reminder of your inability to properly deduce the nature of a man's intentions toward you…"

"Sherlock, _stop._" She interrupted, her voice raised and forceful. Molly's eyes snapped up and met Sherlock's gaze. "I am not in the mood to be _deduced_ by you today. Please just continue with your work while I do mine." The tension in her eyes softened slightly and her forehead crinkled slightly with her next word. "Please."

Sherlock nodded his head. "I...apologize."

He turned his attention back to the slides and made a few notes on his observations. He surreptitiously watched as Molly continued typing. Fear. Her annoyance and subsequent harsh tone weren't simply due to his commentary (note for the future; pay attention to timing) regarding the flowers. Fear was at the heart of Molly's exhaustion and emotional upheaval. He'd announced his return three months prior with a press conference (Mycroft's idea) and full disclosure of the manner of his supposed death. Sherlock attempted to shield Molly from inquiries, but even the most blundering of journalists would have been able to put the pieces together regarding her involvement. Sherlock considered it unfortunate that she (John and Lestrade as well) had been subject to such invasive treatment by the press.

Molly was a good friend. The day Molly told him that she 'didn't count', Sherlock realized just how much he'd taken advantage of her feelings for him. As soon as Molly had walked out the lab, he'd mentally chastised himself for yet another failure to comprehend the intricacies of human emotion. He trusted her as much as he trusted John. She'd demonstrated her friendship and devotion to Sherlock more times than he could count and yet he'd failed to acknowledge the place of importance she held in his life.

Then he died.

During his absence, he'd found that he missed her more than he'd expected; their easy camaraderie, her consistent presence, even her fumbled attempts at flirting often made Sherlock's chest ache with longing. (Indication of affection? More than friendship? Under consideration.) For so many years he'd convinced himself that emotions would cloud his judgement. Sherlock surprised himself by finally accepting the inaccuracy of that conclusion. While tracking Moriarty's network, keeping thoughts of John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in the back of his mind was far from a distraction. In point of fact, those feelings helped him maintain the resolve to continue.

Molly's state of mind regarding these anonymous gifts concerned him. The flowers were obviously sent by an admirer and delivered during times when she was absent from the lab. No delivery notice, no card, and no sticker from the flower shop meant that the individual knew Sherlock would attempt to track the sender. One delivery might have been written off as a mild crush. Two bouquets indicate an attachment. Four, however, demonstrate the admirer's focused attention and, with no other accompanying information (No request for a date, no letter declaring his - her - intentions), indicate more sinister motives. Sherlock didn't like the situation in the least.

Molly finished her computer entry, pushed her chair back and stood up, stretching her back as she rose. One last autopsy and she would be done for the evening. She headed for the connecting door between the lab and the autopsy room. Once again, she was stopped by Sherlock's resounding voice.

"Is it necessary for you to complete another autopsy tonight?"

She didn't turn around, but cocked her head to the side to speak. "Yes, it _is_ necessary. Lestrade needs the report tomorrow morning." Molly didn't wait for his reply and left the room - Sherlock's eyes followed her form as she exited.

Sherlock placed his hands in his lap and sat for a moment. His research was finished but he would wait for Molly to complete her autopsy. Walk her home and ensure her apartment was secure. Mycroft. Extra security needed to be called and his brother did, after all, owe Molly Hooper a debt for her actions to help orchestrate his death. Sherlock smiled at the thought of his brother owing the petite brunette a favor.

His smile disappeared at the sound of Molly screaming.

~oOo~

**What? A cliffhanger? Me? Shocker! So, review this puppy, whydon'tcha?**


	2. Conversations

**Thank you for the wonderful reception, my lovelies. I'm glad this one interests you! I must absolutely thank ****hobbitsdoitbetter**** for her ****amazing**** beta/writing work on this chapter. Without her, it would not have had the same punch. **

**Reviewers - ****Crimson and Chrome 42, MizJoely, Rosie85, , Guest, CloudCookuLandHasAQueen, CorpseGirl, megsterleigh, The Adventures Of**** - your kind words are much appreciated. **

**As always, these characters ain't mine. Here we go again. :)**

~oOo~

Sherlock shot up from where he sat and sprinted the short distance to the door. The stool hit the floor with a clang and his shoes pounded on the floor - the sounds a cacophony in the previously quiet space. He grabbed the handle, pulled and was immediately met with the sight of Molly - her hands clutched to her chest, pure terror shrouding her face as she stared at the autopsy table. (No physical injuries noted.) He scanned the room quickly, ascertaining no immediate threat within the room. Holmes walked to the slab, his ever observant eyes darting between the body and Molly's ashen face as he moved. As soon as he stood next to the corpse, data flooded his brain. Writing - carved into the chest. Knife. Stop. Correction. Scalpel or small paring knife. Fresh wounds. Ten hours old at the outset. The wounds not consistent with cause of death. Inflicted post-mortem. Did the perpetrator commit the murder first then wait until the body arrived here to act? Possibility. A small ceramic angel sat next to the victim's head. Message, obviously. Meaning unclear (unknown) at this stage. Warning? Gift? Taunt? All viable possibilities.

Movement interrupted his ruminations and Sherlock turned to see the tail end of Molly's lab smock fluttering out the door. He paused only a moment (Gather evidence? Pursue Molly?) before deciding that Molly should take priority. Only in part because of his concern for her well being - Molly was instrumental in providing him with information regarding the corpse. He followed her into the laboratory where she sat at her desk, face held in her hands, body shaking.

"You're...distressed."

His voice held such a genuinely surprised tone, it almost made Molly chuckle. Some obsessed..._stalker_ had carved a love letter worthy of Jack the Ripper into a dead man's chest and this was Sherlock's reaction: incredulity. Molly squeezed her eyes shut - she didn't want to look at him. If she looked at him, either one of two things would happen. She would either scream or cry. Neither seemed like a very productive reaction at this point in time.

"That would be one word for it, yes."

"Understandable." He stepped forward and placed his hands behind his back. "However, we should begin the process of gathering evidence immediately. Shall I give you a few moments to compose yourself?"

He was serious. Completely serious. His reaction was vintage Sherlock: Deduce. Investigate. Calculate. One word asking after her well being would have been nice, but, as usual, she expected too much from him.

Screaming sounded like the appropriate option now.

"I think I might need more than a few moments."

"Molly, we need to review the data." Sherlock stepped forward, pointing toward the autopsy room as if to remind her of the importance of the situation. "If we're going to determine the identity of the person stalking you, it's imperative…"

"I _know_, Sherlock. I know." Her voice wavered and the sting of tears rose in her eyes. "Just give me a few minutes to calm down, alright?"

The fear threatened to choke her. Once, when she was a teenager, a friend goaded Molly into going to a fun house. The anticipation and nervousness made her feel alive. She knew she was going to be scared out of her wits, but the excitement was intoxicating. This was entirely different. She felt no excitement or thrill from knowing the stranger who'd sent her beautiful flowers also defiled a corpse - maybe murdered someone - in a sick sign of affection. If he was capable of this - what else could he have in mind for her? The images of all the bodies she'd seen raped, tortured and...worse flashed through her mind. Absolute terror roiled in her gut and spread through her body. She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to settle her shaking form.

Molly didn't want to look at Sherlock. She couldn't bear seeing the cold look on his face. All she wanted in this moment was a friend. Someone to reassure her that everything would be alright, that she would be safe. But he stood in his Sherlock-way, watching her. Observing her. She just wanted to get out. Get away from him - away from the flowers and the body and...everything. She would go to John and Mary's. They would help. They would _care_.

Sherlock rarely felt anxious. The unwanted emotion crept up on him in situations involving the people close to him. He'd experienced this...distress...when he'd seen Mrs. Hudson in the hands of the American mercenaries and when Moriarty informed him that John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be assassinated should he fail to leap off the roof of St. Barts. Anxiety. Fear. It clouded his judgement and the one thing Sherlock Holmes relied on was his logic. But standing here and watching Molly Hooper tremble with panic, he felt the familiar tendrils of pressure in his chest. Someone wanted to hurt her. That made _him _want to hurt _them_. Immensely.

A few more minutes passed before Molly moved. She picked up her bag, digging in the inside pocket where she found her phone and keys.

"I just...I can't do this right now, Sherlock. I'll come back in the morning."

"You can't leave, Molly."

She stopped and closed her eyes - fresh tears spilled from her lashes as the last of her resolve crumbled. "I'm tired, scared and I just want to _go_, alright? I'll...I'll stay at John and Mary's. I'm sure you'll find all the evidence you need on your own. I'll help you however I can tomorrow."

"Leaving is inadvisable. Whoever did this obviously gained access to the hospital, morgue and lab in order to deliver the flowers and deface the corpse while you were absent. The perpetrator may be watching you now. You are not safe to go off alone."

"I'll take a taxi, I'm sure I'll be fine in a taxi." She grasped at logic, trying to think above the exhaustion and fear. "Security will walk me out."

"Taxis are not always safe, Molly. My past is proof enough of that." The flash of the taxi driver's calculating smile appeared before his eyes. "_Let me take you for a ride,"_ he'd said before Sherlock climbed into the vehicle. If it hadn't been for John's sure and true aim, Moriarty's game might have been finished then.

Molly finally turned around and looked at his face. The uncaring, condescending glare she expected was absent. There was a sincerity in his gaze - much like the softness in his face that night of the Christmas party after he'd so cruelly insulted her. It was tempting to read in to this moment more than was really there. He'd last spoken with her as a friend over two years ago when he'd come to her in the lab asking for her help (_You've always counted_) and she'd longed for another time like that - where the two of them could be alone and talk. But the cruel irony of this situation taunted her. Sherlock Holmes _was_ interested in her - as a case. As means to an end. It was too much. She couldn't be around him one minute longer.

"Then I'll call Mary to pick me up, alright? But I can't stay here right now." The tears stung her eyes anew.

She moved to leave when she heard Sherlock's quick steps and felt his hand on her shoulder. Sherlock never touched her...never touched anyone for that matter, if he could help it. But here he stood, his large hand solid on her arm, his next words gentle yet commanding.

"Molly...don't leave. You're tired, I can see that, but allow me an hour. Then I'll escort you to John and Mary's."

Maybe it was the combination of his touch, his eyes - those beautiful, captivating eyes - and her fatigue that lowered her defenses. Maybe it was the desire for Sherlock Holmes to express himself as a human being rather than as a consulting detective. Maybe it was all those factors culminated in this instant, because she felt the words leave her mouth before her brain could protest.

"Are you saying this because you _care _or because I'm the best chance you have to gather evidence, Sherlock?"

He dropped his hand back to his side, suddenly uncomfortable. The moment had become too...personal. Sherlock wasn't accustomed to sentimental physical gestures - a pat on the back, holding another person's hand. It just wasn't _done_. But, with Molly, he found that, from time to time, he wondered what it would be like to touch _her_. It was a fleeting thought - birthed from boredom in the lab more often than not. But it was there nonetheless. He'd harbored curiosity about intercourse with The Woman. Natural male reaction based on her overtures toward him and their similar… irregularities. His interest in Molly, however, tended toward affection. The influence of these feelings on his normally reasoned mind unsettled him; the flower deliveries had even stirred something in him akin to ... jealousy. And Sherlock Holmes resolutely did not get jealous. During his two year absence, he may have thought of Molly with other men - with Moriarty - and the seeping anger at the idea of that loathsome cretin sharing intimacies with _his_ pathologist may have made him entirely unable to think logically- may have distracted him more even than thoughts of his Fall, in point of fact- but that was _not_ jealousy,that was _worry_-

Stop. Refocus. There was work to be done. Now wasn't the time to examine these emotions. (They're self-indulgent. Frivolous.)

This is about Molly, he told himself, not his personal weaknesses.

And so, unwilling to continue in that vein, Sherlock prepared to launch into his ironclad reasoning regarding the need for her her prompt cooperation. But before he spoke, he took a moment to observe Molly further. She was exhausted and afraid, that much would be obvious to anyone (even John), but she was also resolute. (Eyes set and focused, jaw clenched). This was not a moment to let his own feelings get the better of him. His mouth opened and closed before any inflammatory words were spoken. Sherlock could feel the weight of this moment and knew his next words could determine the course of any future friendship with Molly Hooper.

"Both, Molly," he said quietly. "Both."

She sighed and moved to turn but before she could take a step, Sherlock continued, his hand in the air as he spoke. "Let me finish."

"You may not trust my intentions," he began then. Lord, but he hated how…tentative he sounded. "And that is understandable based on my treatment of you in the past. I have been inconsiderate of your feelings, I know. But you have always helped me a great deal - more than I rightly deserve - and I consider you a friend. I do not wish for you to put yourself in any further danger. I would be quite..._dismayed_ should you come to harm." Sherlock took a step forward, searching for his next words. He had to make her understand. "It would be remiss of me - as your _friend_ - not to ask questions of you that will lead to the apprehension of the person responsible for your distress," he told her. "And you know I am the one person who can accomplish this, so...let me help." He said the next to a point somewhere on her left shoe. "Please."

Molly was completely surprised at his openness. Sherlock had just revealed more to her about his personal feelings in two minutes than over the last several years combined. Prior to his absence, Sherlock Holmes would have chided her for being stupid, insulted her for questioning his motives and most likely thrown out a negative comment about her romantic life. She watched him for a moment, expecting a derogatory remark but it didn't come. Sherlock simply stood where he was, awaiting her answer. Could his 'death' truly have changed him? Was she witnessing a kinder, gentler Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched her reaction to his words. Surprise. Confusion. She was studying him, evaluating whether what he'd said was true or a ruse to entice her to stay. He counted to a minute. One minute, thirty seconds. Sufficient time for her to mentally process the information. He had to get to work if he was going to apprehend the bastard responsible and keep Molly Hooper from harm.

"Enough of this foolishness, now. Put down your bag and let's get to the bottom of this."

He turned away from her and made his way back through the doors into the autopsy theater. As the door shut behind him, Molly shook her head and placed her bag back on the chair.

She did not see the smile he had wisely hidden from her - his ruse had worked, she'd not called his bluff.

"You certainly have a way with people, Sherlock Holmes." She muttered to herself. Perhaps kinder and gentler was too much of a stretch. But he _had_ changed. In small ways, certainly, but it was something. The girlish wish to be swept off her feet by Sherlock bloomed in her chest once again and she fought it down. After working so hard to keep her feelings for him in check, she was not about to open herself back up to be hurt once again.

Sherlock stopped after he entered the room where the defiled corpse lay. The time between Molly's scream and this moment were filled with unwelcome emotions. Since his 'death', Sherlock had plenty of time to think about the people in his life and their importance to him. John and Lestrade were friends. Mrs. Hudson took care of him and he took care of her when it counted. Mycroft was...well, Mycroft. But Molly was different. And different disturbed him. She _was_ a friend. But it wasn't thoughts of John and Lestrade that came to him in the loneliness of the night or when he'd been concerned he wouldn't survive a confrontation with one of Moriarty's men. No, those thoughts had been of Molly, and those thoughts...those _feelings_ (Messy. Complicated.) distracted him.

For Molly's sake, Sherlock Holmes couldn't afford to be distracted.

He grabbed a pair of examination gloves and fit them over his long fingers as he spoke to the corpse.

"Shall we begin?"

~oOo~

**What...where? A review button? How lovely!**


	3. Standoff

**Right, so, here it is, kids. Thanks for joining me on this ride. This chapter is sort of a monster, so hang on.**

**A huge, massive, gigantic thank you to hobbitsdoitbetter who is an amazingly great beta. Amazingly. Great. Beta.**

**My lovely reviewers: CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen, , Calicar, Crimson and Chrome 42, Nocturnias, JC, springbok7, Get Sherlocked, DEfy'GRavitY95 - You are feeding this muse so feel free to keep her happy. XXOO**

**Let's do this.**

~oOo~

Molly sat once again at her computer, entering casenotes. Sherlock had dismissed her from the autopsy after fifteen minutes indicating that he needed to concentrate. (_Molly, your presence is distracting. Please go do something useful_.) She was too tired to argue with him - not that she wanted to anyway. The adrenaline of the earlier shock had worn off and she was feeling the physical effects of not sleeping well the past month. If she put her head down now, she was fairly sure she'd slip into a coma. Molly finished typing the last few words of the final patient update when Mary Morstan - followed closely by John Watson - bounded through the laboratory door. It had been no more than thirty minutes since Molly called to tell her about the obscene 'love note.'

"Molly...you alright?" Mary leaned over Molly's back, wrapping her arms around Molly's shoulders, their cheeks flush with each other. The normally reserved Molly was still getting used to her best friend's propensity for hugging. Molly appreciated physical contact as much as the next person (well, except Sherlock Holmes) but Mary Morstan embraced people as if it were her sole purpose in life to ensure that someone received a good and proper hug. Molly patted Mary's arm to reassure her she was fine.

"Yes. Okay now, I suppose. Just tired."

Mary gave one last squeeze before letting go and moving to the front of the desk. Mary's brow wrinkled with concern as she surveyed her friend.

"Tired? You're bloody exhausted." Mary turned to John. "Doesn't she look bloody exhausted?"

John walked up next to Mary and, as his fiancee had just done, looked Molly over from head to toe. The poor woman looked about ready to drop. He'd come to know Molly well in the past two years; especially since she and Mary had become such close friends. The woman who sat before him now appeared far from the pleasant, happy person he knew. He certainly didn't want to make her feel any worse by agreeing with Mary's blunt assessment.

"Well...a trifle...tired, I'd say. So, Molly, mind bringing us up to speed here?" John asked; concern evident in his voice.

Molly sighed. "Kitty Riley's exposés made me into enough of a celebrity that I now have my own stalker."

John gritted his teeth and shook his head. That damned woman. She just couldn't let things alone. She was so bloody angry that Moriarty had duped her that her revenge was to dig up any information - truth or no - on Sherlock's friends. Her articles about Molly had been particularly spiteful. Kitty's scandalous trash sold papers, though, so they kept being printed.

"I started receiving things in the mail just after the first article. They were sort of flattering, actually - except for the ones that said I shouldn't be involved with Sherlock, that I was a disgrace to the profession." She sat back and rubbed her eyes. "At first I ignored them. Then the flowers started arriving and I began to get uneasy about all these gifts. But the flowers were especially disturbing. There'd never been a note and no one had seen them delivered - all when I was away from my desk. It felt as though someone was watching me."

"You never told _anyone_?" It was all John could do not to give into his frustration at Sherlock for not intervening sooner. "No one...guessed? And by 'no-one,' I mean that tosser with the flowy black coat and the superiority complex I used to live with."

Molly sighed. "I didn't want to be a bother. I thought it would go away."

Mary clicked her tongue on her teeth with a 'tsk.' "Didn't want to bother _him,_ you mean." Mary was more than annoyed - mostly with Sherlock Holmes - but also with herself. Molly was her best friend yet she'd barely seen her in the last month - evidently just when Molly needed her the most. But Sherlock should have done _something_. He was at the lab almost every day - he should have seen what was happening. _He_ should have stepped in to help Molly - she helped _him _when he needed it most. Sherlock should have done the same for her.

"Four bouquets in a month? I'm no great detective, but even I can see that's not 'going away', Molly." John's tone was gentle, not accusing.

Molly shrugged. "I realize that now. I was stupid to try and deal with it alone, I know. I just…" Didn't want Sherlock involved. Hated the idea of turning back into a stuttering, simpering hanger on. She'd tried hard to become more independent since he'd left and it hurt to think of him looking at her with pity. "...didn't want to worry anyone." Molly shook her head. "You...you wouldn't understand."

John sighed. "I _do_ understand. You've come into your own these last two years without him and you don't want to go back to the way things were." He'd honestly been glad of Molly's evolution during Sherlock's absence. New outfits (courtesy of shopping trips with Mary) and additional responsibilities at the hospital (teaching, supervising interns), had brought Molly a new level of confidence. She really was quite remarkable. Despite Sherlock's genius, he failed to open his eyes and _observe_ this new Molly Hooper.

Molly's eyes began to glisten, the tears threatening her tenuous composure. She nodded. "I don't want that, I really don't. I _like _who I am now, and that's the sort of person who takes care of herself. But when I'm around him, that 'old Molly' wants to come back. I find myself wanting to become the little lab rat scurrying to get his coffee and his...damn body parts. It's like… It's like I turn into the invisible woman again, and I don't like it."

Mary took Molly's hand. "I love you, Molls, but that's rubbish. You're not invisible. You're brilliant and funny and damn Sherlock Holmes for being a complete prat. I know why you wouldn't want to go to _him_. But you're _our friend_. Even if you didn't go to him, you should have come to me...to us. It's our job to worry about you. You have to let us take care of you, yeah? So we're going to help. John, call Lestrade."

"No need." Molly pointed in the direction of the other room. "He arrived just before you did. He's in there with Sherlock."

"Right. Well, I'll go see about things then." John patted Molly on the shoulder. "We'll get this sorted, Molly. Promise. Even if it means me giving Sherlock a swift kick in the arse." Molly smiled and wiped her eyes. He kissed Mary on the cheek before disappearing into the autopsy theater.

Crossing her arms, Mary leaned on the desk and stared at Molly. Despite Mary's outgoing nature, she didn't make friends easily. True friends - ones that knew her secrets and flaws, who wouldn't judge her as her family so often did - were few and far between. Molly was the genuine article. A loyal and trusted friend who, right now, needed Mary more than she would admit.

"You're about two seconds from collapsing, aren't you?"

Molly nodded. "I'm tired, Mary. I just want to get some sleep."

"I wish you'd come to me sooner. Damn Sherlock Holmes for making you feel like gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I would have called Lestrade. Filed a report…"

"Claiming what? Stalking with beautiful flowers? There wasn't a boiled bunny in my flat, Mary. The police aren't going to do anything until I've been…" She didn't want to say the next words. Molly knew from the start that the police wouldn't do anything if she reported 'feeling uneasy'. They wouldn't have done anything until she was actually assaulted. And she certainly hadn't wanted to involve Sherlock. He might have taken it seriously but she didn't want to seem like she was clamoring for attention. Stupid, yes. But what was done was done.

"Don't even say it, Molls. Just don't. No one is going to touch a hair on your brilliant, stubborn head, yeah? You're going to stay with John and me until this is all done."

Molly shook her head tiredly. "I don't want to put you out. You and John are in the middle of planning your wedding, and there's your work...his work…"

"Bollocks. You're my best friend, Molly Hooper. I'll be damned if I send you home alone with some insane stalker waiting to do God-knows-what to you." Fear suddenly replaced the exhaustion on Molly's face and Mary immediately regretted her choice of words. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to make it sound as bad as all that."

"But it _is_ as bad as all that, I suppose. I'm being a stubborn idiot, I know. This is just unreal. This isn't my life, Mary. This is Sherlock's life. Murderers, thieves...he understands them. I don't. I just deal with the science at the end...not the motives. When I started in this work, I made a choice not to think about the killers...the evil of it all. But, now, I could end up in there and it scares me."

Mary stepped forward and embraced Molly again. "No, you won't. We'll see to that."

The moment between friends broke when the autopsy theater door opened and Sherlock's voice boomed through the space.

"I've obtained all the data I need for now. Molly, gather your things."

He strode over to 'his' chair and picked up his coat while Lestrade made his way to Molly. Greg winked, trying his best to lighten the mood.

"Sensitivity of a porcupine, that one. He thinks he might have it cracked, Molly, don't you worry." Greg glanced over his shoulder briefly, then quieted his voice. Molly knew that tone. That was the one Greg used when he didn't want to start a row with Sherlock - but he was using it on her. She didn't see that as a good sign.

"I think it best you stay at Baker Street until this business is over."

A part of her thrilled to the idea of staying in close proximity to Sherlock; being in his home and having him watch over her. Their conversation earlier indicated that he was concerned for her welfare - even if he had no inclination toward her as anything other than a friend. But her pride (stubborn, yes) told her that jumping at this chance would, once again, demonstrate that she would do anything when it came to Sherlock Holmes. No. She wanted to prove that she was stronger than that - to herself...and to Sherlock.

"Greg, I…"

Lestrade raised his hand, trying to put forth his argument before Sherlock stepped in and changed this request to a demand. "John told us you were going to stay with him and Mary, but Sherlock is more available…" He looked from John, then to Mary. "...no offense, of course. He feels it's the most sensible option and I'm inclined to agree."

"Well, none of this is sensible, is it? I appreciate the concern for my safety, I do. But I'd be more...comfortable at John and Mary's. I'm sure I'll be safe there and then I can always figure out getting to and from the hospital."

She rose from her seat and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Switching off the light, she took a few steps away from her desk before Sherlock stopped her with his voice.

"You'll stay at Baker Street." Sherlock stood squarely in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was set and Molly could see the determination in his eyes. When he looked this way, negotiation was not an option. So, she wouldn't negotiate.

She moved toward him, relegating John, Mary and Lestrade to witness Sherlock on the receiving end of a stronger, more confident Molly Hooper.

"No, Sherlock, I won't."

Sherlock remained stock still. "Molly don't be…." (Stupid. Don't say it. Not good. Definitely not good.) "...ridiculous. You know it's the only option. With the data I've obtained, I should manage to finish this case overnight. You can take the spare room." He held Molly's gaze (had she always had such unusual eyes?) in order to drive home the importance of his next words.

"Besides, I should be the one to guard you." It was the truth - he felt utterly protective of the diminutive woman standing before him. He was intent on keeping Molly Hooper safe. Safe and sound and, and…. his. His, even if he didn't know what to do with her. "It was, after all, publicity surrounding your assistance in my disappearance that let to this person's fascination with you," he continued. She said nothing. "So, as I am somewhat responsible for this situation, I should ensure your safety."

Disappointment took hold in Molly's chest. He'd said he wanted to protect her and, even if only for a moment, the look in his eyes was fierce and passionate. But as quickly as one would flip a switch, the mask descended back over his face. He was Sherlock again - the brilliant detective who always had to be right. She was, as always, nothing but an… obligation to him. He would never change. Never be more to her than someone who needed her for his cases. He'd said he considered her a friend and maybe that could be good enough. But it didn't lessen the sting.

"No, Sherlock. I don't need you to sweep in and play the hero right now." She paused for a moment. "I appreciate that you feel responsible, but I'm not going to stay at your flat. John and Mary's is perfectly safe - at least for tonight. If you haven't solved the case tomorrow then I'll consider moving to Baker Street. But not tonight. Tonight I need to be with my friends."

With that, Molly turned on her heel and left the laboratory. Mary stood for a moment, glanced at John and followed her friend out the door. The three men remained silent for several moments in the aftermath of Molly's declaration. Lestrade was the first to speak up.

"Well, I'll follow them out and wait until you get there, John." He tipped his head and left John alone with a stunned consulting detective.

John watched his friend. Sherlock was visibly struck from Molly's words. His eyes darted about and the lines in his forehead grew more pronounced as he replayed the interchange in his head. John knew something was happening in that brain of his - he just hoped it was his best friend finally coming to his senses.

Sherlock turned around and slammed his hands against the counter top.

"I'm not a _hero_. I never intended to be a hero." (_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._) "I simply want to _help_ her, doesn't she bloody _realize _that?" He righted himself and spun around, his hands gesticulated wildly; a perverse conduction of his own internal orchestra. "This happened because of me. Because some psychopath saw Molly in an article about how she was involved with _me._ I'm responsible, I have to fix this. To take care of her until this is done."

John had seen his best friend angry before. Anger on Sherlock Holmes hung like a dark cloud over his face - he simmered, his jaw clenched, he calculated. This was more than anger - it was frustration, hurt...terror. For all of Sherlock's protestations against emotions (_Your heart should never rule your head, John._), it seemed that the man in front of him was experiencing a full range of them - including, God help them all... love?

It hit John. He knew what he had to say now. "Just until then?"

"What?" Sherlock spun around and fixed John with those piercing eyes.

"You said you want to take care of her until this is done. After that, you two will go back to Sherlock, the consulting detective and Molly Hooper, pathologist? Or are you finally getting it in your overworked skull that she means more to you than just an inroad for obtaining body parts?"

John's accusation unsettled him. Sherlock detested being the one observed. Irene Adler. Moriarty. They saw through _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective _and it was decidedly unnerving. He wanted to be the one in control yet this entire evening demonstrated that there were some things even he could not control. Emotions he could not master would destroy him - could destroy Molly.

That could not happen. John was absolutely correct. Molly..._his_ Molly...was more than a scientific collaborator to him. She was important. She _mattered_.

"John, Molly Hooper is important. She is a friend.…"

"Oh shut it, Sherlock. She isn't just a friend and you damn well know it." John stepped forward and glared at him. "You've been different since you came back from the dead, you know. You're still an arse - that's one thing that will _never_ change. But when you stood up on that rooftop and made the choice to jump - you got it. You understood what it meant to have people to love and protect. You disappeared for two years to bring down a network that could harm one of your friends. And as much as you are loathe to admit, you towering git, you care about Molly. Not just as a doctor or friend...as a _woman_. You're too damn stubborn to say anything, but even Mary and I can see it."

John put his hands in his jacket pockets and continued. "You know bloody well how she's always felt about you, Sherlock. She helped you stage your death without a second thought yet you went two years without contacting her. You've been back for three months yet you've all but ignored her. She _deserves_ more, Sherlock, and she knows it. Molly's spent the time without you becoming more confident and independent - she's damn good at it too."

He paused for a moment to choose his next words. He didn't want to betray Molly's confidence, but Sherlock needed something akin to a slap on those rigid cheekbones to bring him to his senses. "She's been so wound up because of you sitting in that chair, treating her like she's a part of the scenery that she's neglected to to confide in you...the_ one _person who could help her," he tells him. "Two years ago, she would have told you everything, But she doesn't trust you anymore, Sherlock- And trust is a fragile thing for a woman like her. She doesn't want to be hurt anymore, and I can't rightly blame her. So how's about you give her a reason not to expect the worst of you, eh, Spock? Think you can work on that?"

And the good doctor stepped away, his point made.

John watched Sherlock process the information he'd been given. He knew Sherlock became overwhelmed when emotions were present and, right now, Sherlock Holmes looked like he was fighting a tidal wave. _Good._ Maybe something he said would shift that pretentious brain of his into gear. Or even the under-used, but equally important, bits of him that might be of interest to Molly Hooper. He gave his friend a moment, allowing him to process things a little, and then crossed the short distance to stand next to Sherlock. Clapped him on the shoulder and smiled lopsidedly to take the sting out of his words. "I'll watch out for her, alright? You know I can protect her. But if you let things go any longer without telling her and something happens...you'll never forgive yourself, mate."

He turned and began walking out of the laboratory, leaving Sherlock alone to sort out what needed to be done.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the lab, his thoughts whirling. The full realization that his feelings for Molly might lean more toward affection than friendship shifted his internal balance. He'd never had to battle against what he thought and what he felt - feelings were a disadvantage. But the knowledge that she was in danger caused his brain to flood with unwanted levels of emotion. The chemistry of feeling could be so bloody _unhelpful_ at times. Sherlock paced back and forth while images of Molly's injured body flashed through his mind. Knowing someone wanted to hurt her caused fierce anger to bloom in his chest. The idea of her absence from his life agitated him. He relied on Molly. Trusted her. If she were hurt, kidnapped, killed...stop. _Stop_. Following that train of thought would be dangerous for him and for her. He needed to remain focused on the task at hand. Sherlock took a deep breath, centering himself and moving those emotions back to their place in his mind. Only after identifying Molly's stalker would he entertain the examination of his feelings for Molly Hooper. Doing so now would only prove detrimental to the investigation.

No one would harm Molly. Sherlock would see to that.

~oOo~

**Aw, that review box is so empty right now.**


	4. The Molly Question

**Sorry for the posting delay. I will most likely be putting up chapters more slowly on this story, it's definitely challenging me much more as a writer. That, and life is crazy busy right now. Thank you, thank you for the wonderful reception you're giving this one. I can't tell you how much I appreciate the love!**

**My intrepid reviewers ~ crooney83, CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen, BenAddict Holmes, Crimson and Chrome 42, anuni83, AJP910, NicoleJacobs, Calicar, Rocking the Redhead, BazinGal, GetSherlocked, girthwithafilmcamera, romancelover198, RedTailHawk19, and my two guests ~ you are keeping the muse very happy. **

**MUCH thanks to the incredible, fantastic, wonderful hobbitsdoitbetter for her amazing beta. Seriously, people, she's the BEST.**

**Hope you like! XXOO**

~oOo~

Sherlock Holmes was beyond frustrated. It was nine o'clock in the morning (o_ver twelve hours, idiot_) and he still had no definitive answer on the identity of Molly's stalker. He'd narrowed down the possibilities (_eight_), but he didn't have a _name_. The unnamed person (_most definitely not for long, he would see to that_) was out there. Watching her. Waiting for another opportunity to deliver either a twisted message of his devotion or...worse. It was the 'worse', he didn't want to think about. It was the _possibility _of 'worse' that caused anger and anxiety to wind their way through his chest like a spider's web - growing and multiplying until he was unable to think clearly.

And if he couldn't think clearly he was painfully aware that he was of no use to Molly at all.

He threw himself down on the couch at that and steepled his fingers over his mouth. These emotions toward Molly weren't altogether surprising (_although damn inconvenient_). He'd had them before. During his absence, he'd been in the process of interrogating yet another key individual in Moriarty's network. The brute had broached the subject of Sherlock's disappearance and whether that 'mousey little bitch at St. Bart's' played a hand in its execution. The man had laughed and winked, saying that she wasn't much to look at but he wouldn't need to see her face for what he had planned. Sherlock had intended to get the information he needed quickly and move on, but the ugly bastard's twisted smile (_Don't even think about touching her_) made Sherlock reevaluate his plan. Instead of the hour (or less) it normally took to obtain the necessary specifics, Sherlock took the afternoon. By the time the man begged for a quick death, Sherlock had been satisfied: The subject's death had insured Molly would be safe.

Sherlock would be satisfied again once he identified this faceless individual (_some form of mild torture wouldn't be unwarranted in this case either_) and ensured Molly's safety. She would be safe and sound and, and...his. His, even if he still didn't quite know what to do with her. He had some ideas, of course. Ideas that came to him late in the night when he was alone and wondering what she might be doing at the same moment. Thoughts of Molly next to him, smiling in that shy, self-conscious way, caused his chest to tighten with the weight of his... yearning? Hunger? For her. And when he started thinking about those things, he often found himself unable to think of anything else.

He longed for her in a way that made him understand why John devoted so much time to Mary. When he was away from Molly, the time until he saw her again seemed oddly pointless. He even sometimes found himself simply daydreaming (_not often, mind you_) about strolling through the city with Molly, content in the comfort of each others presence. Not doing anything… amorous, just happy being together. It was not entirely different from the way they worked together in companionable silence in the lab: They did make a good team. Maybe that was the foundation of all good relationships, he mused. At the thought his hands dropped to his lap. Was that what was developing between Molly and him? A relationship? Sherlock shifted in his seat - slightly uncomfortable with the word. No, not with the word. With its connotations in this context. Yet, the hallmarks of a pair bond were there; friendship, common interests, amenability to physical contact. Mutual physical attraction, even. Sherlock sat for a moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head from side to side.

"Focus on the case, Holmes." He scolded himself quietly.

He could amuse himself with notions of liaison and courtship once he'd solved things.

If, of course, Molly proved amenable, considering how untrustworthy she currently found him.

And with that in mind, Sherlock bounded up from the couch, grabbed his belstaff and scarf from the chair and made his way out of the flat. Those ideas about Molly Hooper would do nothing for either of them if he couldn't protect her by finding out who intended to cause her harm. He needed to put those distracting feelings away where they belonged in order to concentrate on the job at hand. Only after he found the culprit would Sherlock contemplate what needed to be done about The Molly Question.

A cab pulled up to the curb almost immediately. Sherlock climbed in the back seat and began revising theories about the stalker in his head. Maybe five minutes passed before the text alert on his phone chimed.

_Dr. Hooper security detail on their way. MH_

On their way _now_? He'd asked Mycroft to ensure a guard on Molly at all times and only _now_ does he find it necessary to inform him that she'd been unattended all night?

"Dammit, Mycroft. One simple bloody instruction and you manage to cock it up." Sherlock muttered, punching in his reply.

_Unacceptable. You told me she would have someone last night. SH_

Sherlock's previous frustration was giving way to a mounting anger. If Molly was in any way compromised due to his brother's lack of follow-through, the promises he'd made to their mother about getting along with Mycroft for her sake would be broken - along with his nose. The text alert drew his attention back to the phone.

_Police guard overnight. Private security beginning today. Your Watson should be with her now. Try not to overreact, little brother. Your doctor will be looked after. Little Miss Muffet's curds and whey are in no danger. MH_

Sherlock gripped his phone harder, typing out his response. "If a single curd is out of place, as you put it, I'll show you overreaction, you arrogant sod." He bit the words out through clenched teeth, glowering as he texted a response.

_Obviously she'll be looked after - I'll see to it personally since you are utterly incompetent. SH_

Sherlock exited his texting with Mycroft before the latter could offer any more evidence of his ineptitude and pulled up John's contact information. He pressed the screen on his phone and listened as the call connected and rang...and rang. "Pick up the phone, John," he whispered to himself.

Just before Sherlock was sure he would hear the familiar beginnings of John Watson's voice mail message, his friend's voice came over the speaker.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"John, I assume Molly is with you?"

"Well, no. I dropped her at St. Bart's around seven this morning."

Two hours. Two hours she'd been alone. Unattended. Unprotected.

"Why in the _hell _would you think to let her out of your sight, John? She needs protection, dammit and I trusted _you_ for the job."

"Sherlock, she's…"

He hung up on John and found Molly's number next. John could call him a wanker later. With each ring, he gritted his teeth tighter. Sherlock swore under his breath at the sound of her voice mail message. He looked out the window and saw that the cab was making the turn toward St. Bart's. The cab barely slowed before Sherlock threw some notes at the cab driver and flung open the door, sprinting toward the entrance. As he wound through the hallways - nearly colliding with one doctor and an orderly - he felt as if he were back on the hospital rooftop; the adrenaline and fear coursing through his body as quickly as any poison. Moriarty's game had been perfectly crafted to exact the ultimate revenge on Sherlock - threatening those closest to him worked because Sherlock would do anything for his friends (_for Molly_). The players may have changed in this game, but the stakes remained the same.

Someone for whom he cared deeply was in danger and he had to make sure she didn't lose.

Sherlock marched into the lab, his eyes frantically searching for her brown hair. Nothing. He marched into the autopsy theater. Nothing. Panic, real panic, was beginning to bloom in his chest and he stamped it down. Sherlock Holmes resolutely did not panic. Deep breath in. Out. Repeat. Repeat. REPEAT. _Focus, Holmes._ He entered the lab again and surveyed the room. Bag on the floor. Computer on. Coat draped over the chair. She was here somewhere. He shook off the fleeting thought that Molly might not be in the hospital. John's warning from the previous night echoed through his head. What if she'd been taken from him - removed from his life before…before he figured out what he wanted to do with her? What if she was...? But he pushed that thought down. His vision began to blur with the increase in his blood pressure. Controlling his breathing was doing nothing: The panic he was trying to desperately to tamp down on threatened to overwhelm him.

The sound of the door caused him to spin around, but the breath caught in his throat as the figure coming through the door turned out to be Mike Stamford.

"Where is Molly?" Sherlock's voice was more little more than a bark.

The man looked completely unruffled. _Idiot_. "Pathology class today, I believe."

Class. She was teaching a class. "What room?"

"Education Centre. Main room, I think." Mike glanced at the clock on the wall. "Should have been over at least twenty minutes ago. What's..."

Stamford's question faded into the background as he flew past Molly's boss (_down to seven possible suspects now_) and followed the hallway signs to where Molly should be. His breathing evening out now that he had somewhere to look, something to _do. _He began looking into the windows and each time he failed to see Molly, that dreaded panic loomed in the back of his mind - waiting to coil around his heart again and squeeze. Finally, in the last window, he saw Molly Hooper.

The momentary relief he felt was replaced by blinding rage at the sight of a man in a white coat holding his Molly by the throat.

He slammed open the door and sprinted to where the two stood. Molly's eyes grew wide as he approached. He was vaguely aware of Molly calling his name as Sherlock grabbed the stranger's arm, twisted it behind the man's back and slammed him against the wall.

Sherlock's lips hovered just over the man's ear. "You will _never_ touch her again."

He was a hairs breadth away from breaking the man's arm when Molly's frantic voice cut through the fog of rage. "Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!"

She was pulling at him now, grabbing at his arms in an attempt to break the two men apart. Sherlock turned his head down to look at her and saw the confusion and anger evident on her face.

"Sherlock, he's a _medical student_! He wasn't hurting me! Let him go!"

It took a moment for her words to register in his head. When the true picture of what had transpired between Molly and the young man crystallized in his mind, his stomach twisted as much from the mistake he'd made but from the knowledge that her stalker was still unapprehended. Sherlock stepped back quickly, dropping the man's arms as he moved.

Molly stepped forward and placed her hand on the stranger's back.

"William...Will...are you alright? I'm so sorry, it was a complete misunderstanding."

Molly was soothing him. _Soothing the blighter that had just had his hands all over her. _ She patted his arm as the medical student turned around, a terrified look on his face. He regarded Sherlock a moment, then bolted from the room, grabbing his notebook as he left, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone in the tension filled classroom.

Sherlock stood still, the adrenaline still hot and fresh in his system. His hands clenched inside his coat pockets as he futilely tried to center himself.

Molly turned on him, her arms crossed and jaw set. "What the _hell _was that, Sherlock?"

His fear for her was as raw as an open wound. The mental images of Molly Hooper's lifeless body had flashed through his mind countless times the previous night. His focus on her protection had driven him even during his disappearance. Watching the scenario of Molly in danger play out in front of him - even if it wasn't real - unsettled Sherlock to his very core.

"He had his hands around your _throat_, Molly."

"He's a _medical student_ that I was helping after class! I was demonstrating wound patterns, for god's sake!"

"I couldn't know that, could I? You've been _threatened_, Molly. I arrive here to find you gone from the lab and see…" He pulled out his hands and gestured pointedly to where she and the student had been standing. "..._that_. What do you imagine I would infer?"

Molly opened her mouth to reply but closed it again immediately. She regarded him for a moment, searching his eyes with her own. Her anger faded to frustration and she blew out a sharp breath as one hand went to her hip and the other pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I would imagine you inferred some psychotic stalker was choking me."

"Quite right." He huffed.

"Well, then… Thank you." She said it to her shoes. "You just gave me a fright, is all."

In that instant, Sherlock felt his body shift forward. He wanted to go to her. Cross the short distance between them and wrap her in his arms to verify that she was alright. To know that she was safe here with him. To show that she needn't be frightened of _him. _He wanted to feel the warmth of her against his chest, bury his face in her hair and stand together until his heart ceased its frantic rhythm.

But he remained rooted in the same spot, watching Molly Hooper go to the desk and gather her things. She turned back to him, the corner of her mouth moving upward in a shy smile.

"I always thought my knight would wear armor - not a belstaff coat and a scarf."

"Don't be daft, Hooper. Armor is too restrictive."

Her soft laugh loosened the last tenuous strand of his anger and he felt himself relax slightly. He was still tense - a boogeyman planned to leap from the shadows to snatch Molly away from him. He would not allow her to be placed at risk again.

"Back to the lab, then?" Molly's large brown eyes (_she still looked tired_) sought his - A silent truce was being offered.

He nodded in response. She moved in front of him and his hand automatically went to the small of her back. _ Instinctual. Protective._ Sherlock told himself that after the stress of believing Molly to be in danger, this small gesture reassured him of her safety. It didn't speak to other wants, or needs, or desires: He wouldn't let it. They walked out of the room and turned down the hallway before he allowed his arm to drop back to his side.

It occurred to him that The Molly Question may need to be addressed sooner than he had planned.

Because though his arm had left her, he swore he still felt the impression of her against his skin.

~oOo~

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